Poetry Blog by Laura Taylor (2015)
He’d three lines and a gleaming neck,
stunk of Imperial Leather.
I was gagged and tidemarked,
the Mother of the Messiah.
Under strict instruction
I smiled beatifically
with muted mouth, and purple feet,
in Bethlehem, in Primary.
Virgin Mary, Mother of God.
Silenced, made to breed.
But Joseph (famous cuckold)
was worth three lines of speech.
Friday 18th December 2015 9:30 am
Clog clog clogging up, dominant scrawling,
tongues foreshortened every morning;
careless fingers play with qwerty,
shirking beauty, empty
endless asphalt roads to
wag wag wagging tales of water;
heartsink warning, minds in mourning,
words unversed in seventeen lines;
crumbled poesy, boundless
Tuesday 27th October 2015 1:04 pm
Liam Fox fixes roofs by hitting old folks hard,
hammering the benefits that keep them warm and dry.
Alex Wild thinks they won’t recall who cut their fuel,
and even if they did, well he’s expecting them to die
so it doesn’t matter anyway, does it Alex Wild,
to freeze out folk who pay your wages, keep your nazi arse
in a Tax Alliance think tank making money from the old?...
Tuesday 6th October 2015 10:14 am
This poem has now been published on Militant Thistles, link here:
Wednesday 9th September 2015 12:30 pm
Happy to say that this poem has been published in the anthology entitled 'Over Land, Over Sea: poems for those seeking refuge'.
The book has been produced in the East Midlands by an editorial committee, typesetter and publisher working free of charge, and the initial print costs were covered by a crowdfunding campaign. All proceeds from sales of the book will be shared between the charities: Mé...
Friday 4th September 2015 9:53 am
I remember eyeshine, smear,
transparency and flow;
sunshine flooding corners, floors
and walls awash with haze.
I remember fractal lattice, mimicking
a frosty imprint; winter strings
of spider-ladders swaying
in the breeze.
You remember nothing.
I remember cills of jungle, chewing gum
in silent gazing,
fingering a smiley face ...
Tuesday 1st September 2015 12:08 pm
dressed in flannelette
the Snow Queen pales
against her pillow.
in a final contemplation,
seeing neither near nor far
though knowing earth beneath a primal sky
will be the regal destination.
The King rests
Thursday 20th August 2015 9:31 am
2am came to call.
Storm began to flicker, rise,
raiding every cell of wellness,
strength and hope
of morning light.
Her chest a bellows,
battles raging inwardly,
breaking down defence
on every side.
calling Time, spitting
past is present,
though the history is pushed aside,
ignored in a room too small
for the ...
Wednesday 19th August 2015 9:38 am
Precious little phrase on repeat;
incantation soaring out to settle
dusty words of comfort.
Balm poured to keep us warm,
to soak us in a sense
of que sera sera.
The clock’s slow tock
off the coil.
Vigil kept for breaking breath;
we sit and tell in every tense
stories for release.
Tuesday 18th August 2015 9:42 am
Masked and passive,
just the drawing of a breath
across her threshold;
she is home in a cage
for a bed, bars prevent
any spillage or descent.
Her chest become a bellows;
body bidding it
and rise again,
summoning the will
to act in total independence
of an opiated mind.
We stand to one side
as the medical procession...
Monday 17th August 2015 9:34 am
phones to bed
and in my ears
all cello dread
phones to bed;
a tempest, or a fanfare?
on the hills.
Saturday 15th August 2015 12:52 pm
Here's a 3 minute 'medley' from a recent performance, which gives a nice flavour of my stuff :)
Wednesday 3rd June 2015 9:43 am
Happy to say this has now been published on Militant Thistles, link here:
(this is a performance poem - TTIP needs to be heard as teetip)
Tuesday 12th May 2015 3:00 pm
Hark hark here it comes!
I’ve got a solution for dwindling fuel,
I’m sourcing renewable energy.
I plan to campaign on flatulent change;
employing the parp,
exploiting my arse
for the nation.
Hark hark here it comes!
Sustainable bums are humming for heat,
producing renewable energy.
Think of the children and all of their kin....
Thursday 5th March 2015 10:05 am
The remains of a day
lie extinguished, discarded,
disregarded by the passers-by.
Silver-tipped echo of a mouth
in its everyday normality.
in stained familiarity;
an endless capability
for rainbow possibilities
of shining eyes and laughter l...
Monday 2nd February 2015 2:40 pm
Pat Hughes on The Last Shanty (Fri, 29 Jun 2018 11:14 pm)